A Book to Read

Kai Tiaki : the journal of the nurses of New Zealand, Volume X, Issue 4, 1 October 1917, Page 223

A Book to Read

'England's Effort/ by Mrs. Humphrey Ward

This book consists of a series of six letters written to " an American friend," written really to America, to show the people of our kindred nation what England (and by England the writer says she has chosen that title to stand for us all, and asks " Will any son of gallantj^Scotland or loyalist Ireland, or of these great Dominions, whose share m the war has knit them closer than ever to the Mother Country," forgive her that she has so chosen) has done m the great war. In a preface the Earl of Roseberry says : ' These letters then, are primarily intended to make known to those Americans who are disposed to think of us as laggards , the gigantic and unparelleled efforts which we are making m this gigantic and unparalleled war." The book, apart from its special object, is most delightful and interesting reading, especially to us out here, so far from where the gigantic effort is being made. The letters about the wonderful work of the women will teach us more of what that is, than we have been able to gather from newspapers. Mrs. Ward was given exceptianal opportunities m visiting munition works, the navy, and headquarters and camps m France, so that her information is first hand and authentic. I quote some paragraphs of special interest to nurses. Writing of a camp which has been set down m one of the most beautiful parts of France, the favourite resort of French artists : — "Now the sandy slopes, whence the pines, alack, have been cut away, are occupied by a British Reinforcement Camp, by long lines of hospitals, by a convalescent depot, and by the training grounds, where as at other bases, the newly arrived troops are put through their last instruction before going to the front. As usual, the magnitude of what has been done m one short year filled one with amazement. Yet, as I look back upon it, my chief impression of that long day is an impression, first, of endless hospital huts and marquees with their rows of bods, m which the pale or flushed faces are generally ready — unless pain or weariness forbid — as a visitor ventures timidly nearer, to turn and smile m response to the few halting words of sympathy or enquiry which are all on© can find to say ; and, next, of. such a wealth of skill and pity and de-

votiou poured out upon this terrible human need, as makes one thank God for doctors and nurses, and bright-faced V.A.D.'s. After all, one tremblingly asks oneself, m spite of the appalling facts of wounds and death and violence, m which the human world is now steeped, it it yet possible, is it yet true, that the ultimate thing — the final power behind the veil — to which at least the vast linked spectacle of suffering and tenderness, here m this great camp, testifies — is not Force, but Love ? Is this the mysterious message which seems to breathe from these crowded wards— to make them just bearable ? Let one recollect the open door of an operating theatre, and a young officer, quite a boy, lying there with a bullet m his chest which the surgeons were just about to try and extract. The fine pale face Matures of the wounded man, the faces of the surgeons and the nurses, so intent and cheerfully absorbed, the shining surfaces andappliances of the white room — stamp themselves on memory. I recollect, too, one John S — ,a very bad case, a private. " Oh, you must come and c=ee John S — ," says one of the sisters. " AYe get all the little distractions we can for John." "Will he recover?/' "Well — we thought so — but--" her face changes gravely -"John himself seems to have made up his mind lately. He knows, but he never complains." Knows what ? We go to see him, and he turns round philosophically from his tea. " Oh, I'm all right — a bit tired — that's all." And then a smile passes between him and his nurse. He has lost a leg, he has a deep wound m his back which won't heal, which is draining his life away. Poor, poor John S — . Close by is a short, plain man, with a look of fevered and patient endurance, that hurts one now to think of. "It's my eyes. I'm afraid they're getting worse. I was hit m the head, you see. Yes the pain's bad sometimes." The nurse looks at him anxiously as we pass, and explains what is being tried to give relief. It is devotion of the nurses — how can one ever say enough of it ! I recall the wrath of a medical officer m charge of a large hospital at Rouen — "Why don't they give more Red Crosses to the working nurses ? They don't get half enough recognition. I have a nurse who has been twelve months m the operating theatre. She ought to have a V.C., it is worth it ! " And here is a dark eyed young officer, who had come from a distant colony to fight for England. I find him m an officers' hospital established not long after war broke out, m a former casino, where the huge baccara! room has been turned into two large and splendid wards. He is courteously ready to talk about his wound, but much more ready to talk about his sister. "It's simply wonderful what they do for us ! " he says, all his face lighting up. "When I was worst there wasn't an hour m the day or night my sister wasn't ready to try anything m the world to help me. But they're all like that."